


Windmills

by AngriestPotato



Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Rika's consumption, V's the chorus, Zentine doesn't die ofc, also i'm expecting to write smut at some point hence the rating, this is a Moulin Rouge AU I don't have an excuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-01
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2018-09-27 15:45:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10029851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngriestPotato/pseuds/AngriestPotato
Summary: The RFA tries to run the biggest stage in Paris about as well as they can, which isn't plenty when they've lost both their writer and administrator. With the deadline looming close and no play, they somehow manage to rope Reader into their mess as their very own penniless writer; as one does, Zen the courtesan falls in love with her.





	1. The job offer

Rumor had it, the only thing he wouldn’t sing was love songs.

Why? Well, that depended on which version you chose to believe. Some said he didn’t like them, hated them actually, to the point of allergy; others swore up and down the manager didn’t allow it, that it’d start fights, that she was jealous, that they always came out flat and glib.  
But the fact remained; Zen, the very star of the theatre didn’t sing love songs. Not one, not even by request. Then again, most customers who crowded the Moulin Rouge came for another thing entirely.

Zen’s admirers didn’t want to feel loved, they wanted to feel _wanted_. They wanted the princely charm, the heavily adorned fabrics that always ended up in some sort of tatters by the end of the show, the heroism of their own personal knight; all to impress them and them alone. It was a heady cocktail of desire no matter how fictitious; for the night, he belonged to them.

It’s all they could ask for, and if Zen had fun performing for them, then what was the damage, right?

The damage, in Zen’s opinion, was that he should be able to perform everything; the damage was that finding a producer with enough reputation to back them rode squarely on his acting chops, because not even all of Jumin’s money could save a show that had lost its writer. And he couldn’t let this project go under, he couldn’t let Jaehee down, and he sure as hell couldn’t let Rika’s death break this weird family he’d found, he _couldn’t_. Which is why he kept quiet and psyched himself up to do whatever it took to get this Echo Girl on board, no matter how conflicted Jaehee looked about the whole affair, because he could read it all over her face. They _needed_ this, at least while Luciel and Yoosung figured out what the fuck to do without a script.

  
You were thankfully unaware of the Moulin and its many troubles, though; after all you were just like most other girls making it to the city, a simple nanny, so far removed from the glittery world of the place that it was barely more than a smudge of lights in the horizon.

At least that’s what you thought as the carriage took you closer and closer to the windmill turning in the distance, following the directions your new employer had sent you. That should’ve been your first clue that something wasn’t right, honestly, since the village was clearly not the kind of place where you’d expect to find paper as heavy and expensive as the stationery the letters offering you this job were written in.

But children were raised everywhere, after all. And oh, by the ruckus audible through the door after you finally found the flat described in the letter, these kids were an unruly bunch.

Standing in front of the simple door, with the biggest Can Can stage towering just across the street, you took a deep breath, squared your shoulders and gave two firm knocks on the faded dark wood.

  
…

“We should make it a show about cats.”

Jumin’s voice was starting to take that special, not really there, tone of someone who’s been having every single idea shot down for the best part of the last three hours; his attention by now much more on Ellie as she fought a single loose thread in his jacket batting lightly at his chest, her claws barely even registering over him.

“Who’d even watch a musical show about cats?”

“Zen’s never gonna stop sneezing, though.”

  
The answer from both Yoosung and Luciel came almost simultaneously from where they sulked, either draped over a long forgotten piece of scenery or hanging halfway off the low window, eyes fixated on the Moulin, and this wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Rika was supposed to be here, writing them a play and V should’ve been directing them in doing the things they actually knew how to do.

Their absence settled like a weight on the pit of his stomach, the gentle paws of Ellie amplified a million times over. He wasn’t creative, Luciel was _too_ creative and Yoosung was depressed; the part of him that hated to force both Jaehee and Zen to parade themselves like pastries on sale threatened to rage. The logical part stopped that, barely.

  
“You’re gonna hurt her feelings,” Jumin covered the cat’s ears instead, offhandedly addressing Yoosung on his comment.

“Oh,” it only took that one syllable to know it’d been a mistake, Jumin was apparently not the only one on the edge of despair, since there was venom suddenly pooling in Yoosung’s tongue, “I thought we were all already there.”

“Yoosung…” the word was too exhausted to be a comfort, and honestly Luciel was never the best at keeping normal sleeping hours, but his dark circles were actually worrying now.

“No,” the boy wheeled around, knocking over the cardboard mountain he’d been leaning on in the process, “where’s V?”

“How would I…?”

“I saw you send him a letter, Luciel! I’m not as much of an idiot as you all think I…”

  
There was a knock on the door, and whatever Jumin was about to say died on his lips, there would’ve been nothing that could’ve shut that fight down faster than that. No one should know about this flat, not even M. Han, these were their secret quarters and someone had just knocked on the door.

“I’m sorry,” the voice came muffled, unsure, “I’m the nanny you sent for? I can start right away, if you want.”

  
…

There was a second of unsettling dead silence on the other side of the door, and you could feel the urge to just turn back and hop on a train back home, even if it meant living a sad life of domestic obligations. It only lasted a second, thankfully, and the sounds of a scuffle brought you back from the clear memory of watching the neighbor boys through the windows, running around outside, leaving you –and every other girl– behind.

The door finally cracked open following a loud thud and a yelped curse, and a head of shocking red hair peered out at you with a smile that aimed at polite and reassuring without really getting there.

  
“Hi! I’m sorry for being this harebrained, what’s the name of our nanny again?”

You chose to ignore the fact that he seemed a bit out of breath, muttering out your name and offering him the letter still clutched in your hand. His eyes narrowed at the sight of it, but he allowed you in at last with a flourish; the sweeping motion guided your eyes from the grimacing blond boy sitting on the floor and rubbing at his side, to the cardboard remains of the Alps and the well-dressed man with an armful of cat that took your letter from him.

“Uh, do I have the wrong address?”

“It’s my signature,” was the only answer to your question while the man tried to keep the paper away from curious, reaching paws.

“And your stationery,” the red head added and something dark creeped into his tone, a weird edge that almost, _almost_ , made you step back.

“But we don’t need a nanny,” a voice piped up from the floor, “and you didn’t need to shove me, Luciel.”

“So what do we do with her?”

  
The two other men continued to ignore you, which left a sulking boy for you to help to his feet. And this was routine, mostly, except the part where he was way bigger than most of your charges; he was just heavy enough to jostle your grip on your luggage and send both your coin purse and pocketbook flying across the flat.

  
“Well, we’re gonna have to keep her,” Luciel –you supposed, if the boy was really referring to the red headed man before– commented, “at least while we figure out who forged your signature.”

Oh that sure as hell distracted you from the spilled francs and the apologetic blond now back on his knees to hunt down the scattered papers; you were not a cat they could just decide to take in, and you were about to say just that when the actual fluffy feline was unceremoniously shoved in your arms.

“What…?” at least the animal seemed to like you as its owner turned to help pick up your things instead.

“You’re a nanny, aren’t you? Elizabeth the Third is well behaved, just don’t let Luciel take her.”

The comment made you wheel around to find the aforementioned man grinning at you, and this time it felt more natural, it made the corners of his eyes crinkle a bit behind the glasses; but he made no move to reach for the cat, instead bending over to pick a stray page.

  
It was just your luck that he’d be the one to find one of the pieces of your stories.

“What’s this?”

The lilt in his voice made the other two look up and you were glad for the white fluffy tail batting at your face, hoping it would cover up your sudden red cheeks, even a little.

“I, um, children like hearing stories sometimes when it’s raining, or cold, or…,” you paused, Elizabeth clutched to your chest and stopped your rant before it got too out of hand, “and they’re picky about the details, so I had to write them. It’s nothing, it’s just fairy tales.”

Luciel was clearly not listening to the explanation anymore; he cleared his throat, straightened the page and read out loud in a surprisingly smooth voice.

  
“ _…At the lady’s question, the musician took a moment to think what he had to offer. What could he give to someone who had all the riches she could want, safe behind the bars of her window?_

_‘I have only words,’ he answered, unwavering, ‘but they can take you anywhere you desire, if you let them.’_ ”

  
There was a collective gasp that made you start, the faces around you lit up with hope; it occurred to you that the time to run was long gone, but honestly, at the moment you would’ve taken being swallowed up by the ground as an acceptable substitute.

“It sounds like Rika’s writing,” the boy looked at you with naked affection, as if for a moment he was seeing someone else.

You stood there, floored as Luciel paced around picking more and more pages and reading snippets as he went and the cat owner, of which you still didn’t know the name, offered you a job and lodgings.

“I already have a job,” you protested as he explained how he owned the whole building and you could have your pick of apartments, “I thought I did… I’m a _nanny_.”

“No, you’re not,” Luciel chimed in, “you’re the new writer for the Moulin Rouge.”


	2. The show

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their plan left in your hands the ‘easy’ —exact word— task of convincing the greatest star of the Moulin Rouge, most handsome man in Paris, someone who was probably very used to women trying to sway him in their favor, that you were good enough for him.
> 
> Easy, of course.

As it turned out you _weren’t_ the writer for the Moulin Rouge, not _yet_ , and not without managerial approval. Now, the thing with management, if the way Yoosung, Luciel and Jumin skirted around the issue was anything to go by, was that it was going through a bit of a rough spot.

You stared as they paced around the room they had decided was best for you, right under theirs with the same view of the windmill; they weren’t bad people once you finally knew their names, they didn’t seem to at least, and honestly there was a flash of curiosity that kept you from being too worried. You had heard of the Moulin —your father had spent an entire evening getting redder and redder with anger at the sole thought of you setting foot in the place— but it still felt unreal; and it was rather hard to imagine danger coming from a place that sounded so much like a fairy tale castle, complete with a faerie king.

  
Jumin’s hands on your middle startled you out of your daydream, squeezing gently at your waist for half a second before turning back to the others.

 

“Straight front,” he announced, and it took you a minute to understand he had been checking you for a corset.

“Why didn’t you just ask?” you fussed with your blouse, begging for the embarrassment to be a little less obvious this time because honestly it was getting ridiculous to be constantly red in the face.

“We did,” Luciel’s smile was wicked, “there’s only so many times we can ask ‘what kind of undergarments are you wearing’ without Yoosung’s ears turning permanently red.”

 

Said blonde mumbled something unintelligible but you recognized the blush on him and the flash of fire in his eyes as you did your own; this wasn’t an innocent blush, it was the one of someone who had at the very least read some sordid things.

  
“Well,” you had to shove your suspicions of Yoosung’s hobbies aside as Luciel effortlessly cut in, walking up to grab you by the shoulders and turning your body to face the mirror in the corner, “now that we don’t have to try and fit you into one of my corsets, we can pick a dress!”

“What dress…? _Your_ corsets?” the questions crowded in your mind as much as the answers from everyone in the flat did once you voiced them.

  
“You can’t expect to get into the Moulin in day dress do you?”

“Any dress you keep around’s gonna be too big for her too, Luciel” and:

“Nothing wrong with playing a little dress up, is there?”

 

Their plan, when they settled enough to properly explain was to sneak you into the theater as Jumin’s date to avoid being spotted by the manager, who, they seemed to believe, wasn’t about to approve of them bringing an anonymous country girl —no offense, Luciel assured— to finish writing the play. But she would surely accept someone if they were personally recommended by Zen.

A plan than then left in your hands the ‘easy’ —exact word— task of convincing the greatest star of the Moulin Rouge, most handsome man in Paris, someone who was probably very used to women trying to sway him in their favor, that you were good enough for him.

 _  
Easy, of course_.

  
“I’ll get you a dress,” were Jumin’s last words before storming out of the apartment, as he held his hands apart in an approximation of your waist size, leaving his friends to fuss over your hair instead.

 

…

Yoosung had been right, the dress Jumin had mysteriously shown up with did fit you much better than the one Luciel had dug out of his chest of secrets; which did not mean you were comfortable.

The lights were dizzying, the place was packed and just now was the full weight of what you were about to do settling in your gut. You were suddenly so nervous that your steps stuttered, so much that they forced Jumin to slip a gloved hand around your waist and in some way helped keep you hidden against his chest as he guided you through the entry, greeting a strict looking woman as he did.

  
“We’ll get you to Zen’s room as soon as the show’s over,” Jumin assured in a whisper, “can we count on you?”

  
The jerky nod you answered with won you a smile, which turned contagious enough that by the time Luciel and Yoosung joined you at the table and the lights focused on the stage you were starting to enjoy yourself through the nerves.

The first thing you noticed about Zen was the cheers of his fans, a collective gasp of the women on the main floor below you and the shock of a voice that sent a chill down your back; a voice that was very quickly drowned by the music and the screaming while a figure dashed across the room in a prince outfit so glittery it was almost blinding.

Next came the shock of the dancers, dressed as ghouls and swinging from silken ropes that disappeared up into the darkened ceiling; the choreography was flawless, Zen fighting valiantly as the dancers swarmed him, the audience caught between excited titters and awed silence. You personally, leaned to the latter as you stared starstruck at the acrobatics. Jumin chuckled at your expression before he excused himself, leaving you to a giggling Luciel muttering how Yoosung mirrored you exactly.

 

… 

“I brought someone today.”

  
Zen damn near jumped out of his skin when Jumin stage whispered at him backstage; and he was too busy rushing to change into his torn ‘captured prince’ shirt for the next scene to listen to this asshole and one of his many conquests, like neither of them knew what they really saw in him.

  
”Oh, and who is so lucky to be sharing her night with the richest man in town?”

  
He had seen her, as a flash of awareness that he didn’t really pay attention too, just because he routinely looked for the table they usually sat at. He thought the girl had been pretty, which was mostly a given to have gotten as far as being here; Jumin’s suitors had to cover certain obligatory requirements, probably she’d try to land herself in his bed by the end of the night.

  
“She’s not here for me,” Jumin’s voice snapped him out of his trance, “she’s here for you. She’s interested in supporting the show.”

  
That got Zen’s attention, so much that he let Jumin slink away without the biting comment he had intended to lob at him. He made sure to really look at the girl sitting at their table as soon as he stepped back on stage, but it wasn’t like he could abandon his show to steal a glance so it wasn’t until the final scene that he could actually take a moment and take her in.

She was more average than he expected, her eyes dancing all across the scenery as the story came to the great finale and she seemed so amazed by everything but him; Zen’s prince rose victorious, his body stretched out towards the audience as the rope lifted him up to the cardboard castle doors that led offstage. He balanced his weight on a single foot, blowing kisses to the audience, and as he sang his last line, he locked eyes with the girl.

She smiled at him with the kind of real, almost childish excitement that he hadn’t encountered in so long that he found himself aching for it; it wasn’t lust, wasn’t longing, just someone truly enjoying his performance.

He used the pause between lines to try and catch his breath, but the distraction was enough to make him tilt too forward, his balance completely thrown as he dipped out of control; the rope around his ankle held, the ankle itself didn’t have such luck and he felt the flash of pain all the way up to his thigh.

He smiled through it, covered it with a flourish and more kisses to quiet the scared gasps all around him; but he could see from here Jaehee’s worried expression and the girl leaning halfway over the balcony with three pairs of hands trying to hold her back.

  
He wished he could say it was some sort of comfort to have someone look that genuinely scared for him, almost not buying the princely mask he still kept; but at the moment he only felt the sharp spikes of pain and the cold, cold fear of having fucked over his own future, and the theater’s to boot.


	3. An interlude of mistaken identity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wasn’t sure what a rich boy’s motive would be to land you in here, but he could at least trust him, right? Right.
> 
> Jumin wouldn’t fuck him over, wouldn’t fuck over Rika’s theater. Zen took a deep calming breath, watched you do the same; your hands clutched together so tightly in front of you that your knuckles turned white.
> 
> This was going to be a long fucking night.

You were tempted for a second to think Jumin had lied to you. This room while on the surface perfect for the type of cutout prince Zen was supposed to be, felt more like something you’d find onstage.

The gold, intricate furnishings looked almost cold, too monumental to be something people lived in; the carpets were too fluffy, the curtains untouched, the set table almost unbelievably tempting. This was a cardboard palace, not someone’s room.

Actually, if it hadn’t been for the man himself walking in just as you reached for the door, you might’ve been back on the main floor looking for Jumin instead of having your nose right up against a heavily embroidered jacket.  


“Leaving so soon, darling?” one of his hands gently grasped your elbow while the other bumped your chin up so you’d look at him, “I thought we had all night.”  


You stared, frozen and wide eyed for a second. His voice was even better this low and up close, conspiratorial, and his scent was a cloud of something floral and a soft leather heart; so charming that it made your fingertips prickle.

You certainly did hope you had all night, you didn’t know where to start, especially not being this nervous. Should you just sit him down to read him a story? Of course you shouldn’t, what was he ten? Oh god, this was harder than you had expected.  


“Nervous?” Zen leaned in, his eyes dropping to your lips for a millisecond, and nudged the tip of your nose with his “How about we get a little more comfortable? I’ll start.”  


He moved away, discarding his outer layer in favor of the simple white shirt he wore underneath, the _mostly unbuttoned_ shirt.

This was definitely going to be a long night.

 

…

The Beast had never failed Zen, most of all not with the kind of girls that fawned over Jumin, and it was not going to fail him now. Or at least that’s what he expected –hoped for if he was being honest– because he needed you on his side if you could help the show in any way.

Sure, you seemed a little shell shocked and his ankle was currently killing him, but he could pull through, he could _do_ this. Maybe they wouldn’t need Echo Girl if you agreed to back the project, maybe you knew her and could sway her; he wasn’t sure what a rich boy’s motive would be to land you in here, but he could at least trust him, right? Right.

Jumin wouldn’t fuck him over, wouldn’t fuck over Rika’s theater. Zen took a deep calming breath, watched you do the same; your hands clutched together so tightly in front of you that your knuckles turned white.

This was going to be a long fucking night.  


He circled you, careful to balance his weight mostly off that damn bad ankle, tugging on your arm until you pretty much feel onto the foot of the bed with him; and he caught himself thinking that the blush on your cheeks was endearing, if it was real. He couldn’t quite put his finger on why, but he wanted it to be real.  


“Here, let me help you relax,” you obediently let him sit you across from him, keeping yourself sidesaddle over the bed, “may I?”  


His hands found your cheeks, soft and gentle, and this he knew he was good at; rubbing little circles over your skin with his fingertips he slowly made his way down your jaw. He asked you to close your eyes and almost let himself get caught on your charm when you did, he could feel your pulse racing and victory so so close at hand.

He slowly, casually, popped open the top button of your dress; and it all went to hell. You jerked away from his touch and he had to jump back too, to keep his feet tucked safely behind him, so far that you managed to slip away and across the room in the space of a breath.

  
“I, I’m sorry, I can’t… I don’t… know how to do this?” You fumbled with your button, kept you back to him, luckily.  


“Don’t worry, darling. I’ll take anything you give me.”

  
The words were practiced but he couldn’t fake the sudden soft, affectionate tone of his voice; and he certainly couldn’t drop it, no matter how he tried to turn it into seduction. This was shaping to be a day to remember and not for good reasons; now you were going to be offended, thinking that he was looking down on you. Or worse even, you’d milk the hurt, shy little girl act until he begged.

  
“I have only words,” your voice wavered a bit, threatened to get stuck on that last word, “but they can take you anywhere you desire, if you let them.”

  
Zen froze, half enchanted half afraid to death that you had seen right through him to the deep, desperate core. Did you know he would rather never set foot on a stage again if it meant he had to start selling sex?

Your hands were once again clutched tightly against your middle, and your eyes were so ruthless on him; all seeing, all knowing and somehow still uncertain.

  
“Is this…?” the question dropped unfinished from your lips, like a bridge Zen had failed to extend from his side, dumbstruck and silent as he was, “Jumin said, if you liked my stories, the manager would let me write the show for you. But I…”

“You’re a writer.”

  
Zen felt something beginning to break through his trance, grounding him after the rush of panic and whatever it was that had made his chest so tight when you spoke.

Jumin hadn’t sent him a producer, Jumin had sent him a writer, which was both his salvation and a waste of time when he could be trying to sway Echo Girl to tack her name onto this production and bring in enough public to keep them afloat.

  
“No,” you sighed so deeply that it tugged at Zen’s heart, “I’m just a nanny.”

Oh, he was definitely going to end up killing Jumin Han this time.

  
A sudden knock on the door made you both jump, and Jaehee’s voice right after had Zen wheeling around, rushing to stand. Jaehee was talking to someone else on the other side of the door, a young woman by the sound of it; Echo Girl if tonight’s shitty luck held.

  
“Zen? Our honor guest’s here for you.”

  
The flatly polite, full on manager inflection on that phrase only confirmed Zen’s suspicions and made it even more urgent to get you out of there before anyone could misunderstand your reasons as badly as he had done.

  
“We’ll have to continue this some other time…”

  
He started to apologize, moving to push you towards the big window at the back of the room from where he was quite confident you could make it onto the ladder that connected his room to the garden below. His ankle had other plans though, it hardly let him give two paces before it gave under his weight and the world pitched so violently he half shouted a curse.

Zen didn’t see you move, he mainly just felt you at his side all of a sudden with your hand around his waist to try and balance him; but he did have a great view of the door swinging open, Jaehee’s worried expression and the young girl standing next to her who quickly went from excitement to jealousy.

  
“Zen?”

“Are we interrupting something?” the girl’s voice dripped acid as it drowned out Jaehee.

  
If Zen hadn’t been quite as stressed as he was, maybe he could’ve found the dark humor in this.


	4. The pitch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zen wanted to be thankful for how you saved the day, he honestly did, but his heart was always a treacherous, selfish thing.

“It’s going swimmingly!”

  
Luciel’s stage whisper was exactly the kind of commentary Yoosung didn’t need; since at the moment all he could really see has Luciel’s ass above him in the steel ladder that rose along Zen’s tower from the gardens. And there was nothing that drove him up the wall more than being left out of things, as if he hadn’t had enough of it already with Rika’s death and V’s disappearance.

He bit his anger though, trying to peer over the messy red hair only to see a wild movement of shadows over the ceiling.

“Wait, I think they’re coming this way,” it was mostly a confused mumble before Zen’s shout startled them both almost all the way off the ladder.

“What happened?!”

Yoosung’s voice climbed an easy octave as he practically shoved Luciel up into the window and out the way; but the man was pretty much frozen and unresponsive. There were more voices from inside the room, Jaehee was one of them and the other one…

“Jaehee!” Zen greeted from inside, a bit too cheery, “and this must be the lovely Echo Girl! It’s a pleasure to meet you, darling!”

Luciel twisted his body to look back with a slightly panicked expression. Jumin was supposed to be entertaining both Echo Girl and their new star manager somewhere far away from this room.

“Is it?” the girl asked in the tersest tone Yoosung had ever heard, and he had witnessed more than one fight between Zen and Jumin.

“Of course! Now that you’re here I can introduce you to our writer!”

Yoosung threw himself up at Luciel at that, forcing him a couple steps up and threatening to knock them both off balance, which was, in turn what sent Luciel scrambling to hurry up to the landing. And at least he had the presence of mind to offer his hand down for Yoosung to pull himself up.

It was quite an entrance, all things considered, and it served for the intended purpose of stunning every single soul in the room just the second Luciel needed to fix his crooked glasses and open his arm wide, as if he was the one receiving guests instead of crashing in.

“Echo Girl! It’s such a pleasure to have you here,” his tone was sure, an accomplished liar’s gall and an actually quite dazzling smile, “so much that when we heard Zen was meeting you we couldn’t be left behind, now could we Yoosung?”

Yoosung simply shook his head, bashful and already standing right beside you as if on instinct. Luciel turned back to Jaehee, whose face was stuck in a rigid mask of pleasant emptiness, but whatever he was going to say next was interrupted by the door slamming open to reveal Jumin standing slightly out of breath in the hall.

“I told you to wait” Jumin began scolding Echo Girl, while she argued that there was no single reason for her to obey the likes of Jumin Han.

  
You, now tucked behind both Zen and Yoosung, were completely lost.

This was not what you had come to do in Paris, not in the very least; you had thought you would only need to deal with sticky hands and complaints about bed time, not a screaming battle about a play you may or may not write, in the middle of the night, standing in a fake prince tower in the Moulin Rouge. Then again, your mother had always said that sometimes you could only take the days as they came, and you supposed you might.

You had seen very little of the Moulin Rouge cast and crew but you knew they were full of love for theater, to the point of nudity in some cases. There was no way you could just abandon them to their fate, especially now that you owed Jumin a dress and a couple hours of rent.

“What’s it about?”

Echo Girl’s voice almost startled you, much closer than you had expected since the girl now stood nose up to your makeshift guards.

“I’m sorry?” you hoped your forced smile resembled politeness even a little but she didn’t seem to be buying it, or maybe she just didn’t care.

“I _said:_ if the play’s so great you all thought you could interrupt my time with Zen because of it, then what is it about?”

“It’s about a prince,” Zen blurted, leaning back to shield you or to shift his weight of his ankle, you weren’t sure which.

“Another prince?”

Echo Girl did not make her contempt a secret, scrunching up her nose and looking you up and down so aggressively that, to be frank, it made you panic.

“A fairy prince,” your words came rushed, a bit nervous, but they stilled the room either way, “he’s a fairy prince. A beautiful, possessive, dark prince that rules his court deep beneath the wood where no man dares thread.”

You lightly pushed your way past Yoosung, stole a glance to Zen’s confused face as you went; it didn’t reassure you much but you could definitely see the eerie beauty of the fae prince in his stance. He could pull it off, you told yourself. You could pull this off.

“And he’s set to marry the prettiest fairy of his court, so pretty she could make you cry…”

“I want to be that fairy,” Echo Girl at least now seemed interested, “I mean, no one could play her like me, right?”

You chose to ignore Jumin’s derisive snort by the door, lest you cracked a smile, and focused instead on Jaehee’s soft mutters of assent.

“ _But_ , one day like any other, a human girl falls into his kingdom,” you paused mid step, looking down, “she didn’t mean to, she was just a little lost.”

“And he falls in love with her,” Zen’s sudden comment wasn’t a question, just a statement like there was no other way for the story to go.

“And the fairy is so jealous,” Yoosung piped up with a contagious grin, so encouraging that you had to reach for his hand in a sudden rush of enthusiasm.

“Yes! And she tries to drive away the girl from the kingdom, tells her the prince doesn’t really love her and sends her back to the human world, but the prince and the girl they…”

  
You stopped, honestly you hadn’t planned that far, most kids would be asleep or uninterested by now, toys or pets were always much more interesting than fairytales. You looked around, trying to not make it too obvious how you were silently asking for help and met Zen’s eyes as they went from your hand in Yoosung’s to your face.

“They have a love song,” he told you, not the room, but you alone, “that can be heard through the Earth, so they remember they belong to each other.”

Everyone present went completely serious as soon as Zen finished talking, even Echo Girl stared at the star of the theater in wonder. You didn’t quite understand what was so significant, in the split second of quiet before Echo Girl exploded into excited titters but you chose to let it go. She apparently liked the play, the Moulin would be saved and you didn’t have to go back home with your tail between your legs.

Jumin placed a warm palm over your shoulder, Luciel and Yoosung both seemed to deflate with relief and you decided you could, at least for tonight, congratulate yourself on a job well done.

  
…

Jumin had ordered a bottle of champagne as soon as they managed to get Echo Girl out of the theater, not to mention his personal quarters, but Zen just couldn’t find it in himself to celebrate. He was too busy at the moment, caught up in trying to figure out the twist in his gut at the way you smiled, blushing under Jumin’s praise as he filled your glass, the same kind of bubbling annoyance in the pit of his stomach when you took Yoosung’s hand so easily in yours.

He tried to convince his better judgment that it was nothing, just animalistic, male territoriality. He had gotten the chance to see that lovely blush first and now felt an unfounded possessiveness over it; he tried not to think about the faith you had put in him too, the character so different from what he was famous for that you believed he could somehow make convincing. Then again you didn’t really know him, did you? The city wasn’t your home, you probably weren’t impressed by him in the least.

You turned to him then, flashed him a shy grin before you were pulled away into another conversation -Jaehee’s nervous but gentle reprimand for tricking her- and, in the absence of your attention, Zen had never felt lonelier, even with a veritable party going on around him.


	5. The heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It had been long since anyone had made Zen believe a fairy tale, too damn long in his opinion.

This was the reason Zen usually didn’t drink more than a glass of wine, at least in public; he had the terrible habit of getting emotional when he drank, especially after these past few months. But it had been a celebration and Yoosung had insisted and now he was sitting on the balcony staring at the slowly dawning sky, trying to will his eyes not to water.

His ankle throbbed painfully even if he was doing nothing but hang it off the ledge, they had all gotten more than they bargained for in Echo Girl; he had set himself up to sing a _fucking_ love song.

And then there was you.

Even his most romantic dreams knew this was too soon to be attracted to someone, Zen couldn’t really explain the pull in his chest, he just wanted you to look at him the way you had that night. Your voice had wavered but you had pulled his heart out for the entire world to see either way; and you believed in the words when you said them.

_“…_ _they can take you anywhere you desire, if you let them.”_

  
He sighed, ‘anywhere he desired’ seemed so impossible it ached. He didn’t even know where that would be, honestly, the great stages of Paris? Of the world? Home, maybe? Wherever home was, _could_ be. Just not here, stuck as a forever prince for fans that only showed up for the shredded costumes; fans that, he reminded himself, he owed everything to.

It wasn’t that he hated how his life had turned out, he just wanted more. And more came calling for him from the garden below, stage whispering his name until he finally saw you standing there in a simple day dress, not even a coat to keep the early morning chill away.

“Good morning!”

He hardly had time to stumble his way through your name before you were climbing the stairs, looking up at him like an old friend, your hair slightly messy from the cold and the climb. You faltered for half a second as if you were steeling yourself for something you didn’t find all together pleasant.

“What- what are you doing? Darling…” Zen tried to push down the spark of anxiety he felt at your serious expression before you smiled again.

This time he had the sudden and clear impression your grin hid a secret, which did nothing for his nerves.

“I’m sorry, I know it’s early,” you helped him get up, stayed with him until he stabilized his weight on his good ankle without being asked to, “but this seems like a bit of an emergency.”

“What does? Darling, whatever you need, if I can help…”

You crossed his room in a few quick strides and opened the main door, ignoring him for a very stern older man that had mysteriously been on the other side, and the offer died on his lips when said man introduced himself as a doctor.

“I need you to let someone take a look at that ankle.”

  
Zen liked to think it was the surprise and not how you stood there, trying to peek over the doctor’s shoulder that made him so obedient throughout the examination. To the point that he let the old man wrap his ankle tightly as he blattered on about swelling and exercises and _writing the alphabet in the air with his toes_ –at least the look he shot your way at that made you chuckle.

“It should heal quickly enough,” the doctor didn’t addressed you instead of him, and Zen couldn’t help but pout, “as long as he keeps it wrapped and doesn’t strain it further.”

You thanked the man profusely, walking away before he could even get a word in about his own damn ankle; your eyes focused on the curt gestures of the doctor, you nodded along to a repeat of all the directions the man had just listed to him.

Only when he called your name did you turn back to him with still traces of concern on your face; there was a sick satisfaction in it, in you being worried about him like he mattered to you and you hadn’t met him barely hours before.

“You should get in bed,” you suggested, already pulling back the covers to help him get settled.

“I really don’t think…“

“How will a prince look with dark circles, I wonder?”

Your tone left no room for objection, so Zen let himself be guided gently onto the pillows, one big cushion under his foot as you tucked him in like a child.

“So stern,” he teased, and was rewarded with a half smile that only made him want more.

“I told you, I’m a nanny.”

“Will you tell me a story then?”

  
Zen was pushing his luck, diving head first into something he wasn’t quite sure he understood, little less controlled; but he figured most of his adult life had already been a game of chance, what ill could a bit more gambling do, really?

You laughed but sat beside him on the edge of the bed, your hands on your lap so close he could’ve just reached over and held them in his, maybe toy with your fingers a little just to see if there was more of the itty bitty, barely visible scars he could spot from where he was.

“A story about what?”

Zen thought he understood, when your eyes looked focused on a story, the way they had last night; you were offering him the world, if he could imagine it and you could find the words.

“Tell me about the fairy prince.”

“Oh,” you tensed up immediately, the same nervous disposition as if Echo Girl was still in the room.

“No,” he amended, as soon as he caught the meaning behind it; his hand actually shooting up to grab yours instead of merely wishing for it “it’s nothing about work, I just- I wanna know how he is. Why isn’t he like any other prince?”

There was a moment of hesitation while you stared down at your hand in his; as if you were trying to decide whether to pull away or not.

“Well, he’s heartless.” You finally answered, shifting so your palm met his just as he was starting to retreat, and he should not be this excited about your thumb running over his knuckles.

“How?”

“Literally,” the tension began to leave you as the story took over. “He hid his heart away somewhere in the forest, so he can be what his kingdom needs. He’s a good ruler, he keeps his people safe from intruders and his only weakness sits unreachable, deep in the woods.”

  
Zen almost sighed; he knew what you meant, what the prince meant. There were places you couldn’t carry your heart to or it would destroy you. He had more than once wanted to physically bury his feelings too, and he wondered again if you even realized how precise the things you said were, how they spoke to him.

“Does it glow?” his question made a confused frown interrupted the far away look you’d gotten, “the prince’s heart does it glow, deep in the forest?”

“If you want it to…” you smiled again. Zen decided that was his favorite thing about you, all your different smiles.

“And the girl, the human girl, finds it?”

The blush that spilled over your cheeks was so surprising he feared he’d said something wrong for a second, but you just made an embarrassed noise and stayed where you were, hands joined and all.

“It was an accident, she didn’t mean to- I didn’t mean to…”

“It doesn’t matter,” he cut you off, no matter how much he liked seeing you blush, “she found it anyway. She saved him.”

“No, you don’t know what happens next,” you gripped his fingers tight, an enthusiastic undertone making its away over the embarrassment, “now his heart can be used against him.”

  
Zen’s own heart seemed suddenly two times heavier than it had ever been, like a warm stone in his chest, and it kept repeating a single sentence that he found himself saying aloud before he could think better of it.

“It’ll be worth it.”

Your eyes went wide at that, followed by a grin that was so big it looked like you simply couldn’t contain it, and your other hand wrapped over his too, enveloping him.

“I sure hope it is.”

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the unapologetic Moulin Rouge AU; nothing is sacred.
> 
> There's not gonna be full on transcripts of songs, I think that's a fair warning to make; though there's gonna be a whole lot of musical theater digs.


End file.
